“I’m sorry, Mark, but that can’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because you happen to be very unlucky. You have some important information, and you’ll be in trouble until you give it up.”
“And then I could be dead.”
“I don’t think so, Mark.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. There was a slight bruise high on his left cheek, and it was turning brown. This was Friday. He’d been slapped by Clifford on Monday, and though it seemed like weeks ago the bruise reminded her that things were happening much too fast. The poor kid still bore the wounds of the attack.
“Where would we go?” he asked softly, his eyes still closed.
“Far away. Mr. Lewis with the FBI mentioned a children’s psychiatric hospital in Portland that’s supposed to be one of the best. They’ll place Ricky in it with the best of everything.”
“Can’t they follow us?”
“The FBI can handle it.”
He stared at her. “Why do you suddenly trust the FBI?”
“Because there’s no one else to trust.”
“How long will all this take?”
“There are two problems. The first is the paperwork and details. Mr. Lewis said it could be done within a week. The second is Ricky. It might be a few days before Dr. Greenway will allow him to be moved.”
“So I’m in jail for another week?”
“Looks like it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Reggie. I can handle this place. In fact, I could stay here for a long time if they’d leave me alone.”
“They’re not going to leave you alone.”
“I need to talk to my mother.”
“She might be at the hearing today. Judge Roosevelt wants her there. I suspect he’ll have a meeting, off the record, with the FBI people and discuss the witness protection program.”
“If I’m gonna stay in jail, why have the hearing?”
“In contempt matters, the judge is required to bring you back into court periodically to allow you to purge yourself of contempt, in other words, to do what he wants you to do.”
“The law stinks, Reggie. It’s silly, isn’t it?”
“Oftentimes, yes.”
“I had a wild thought last night as I was trying to go to sleep. I thought — what if the body is not where Clifford said it is? What if Clifford was just crazy and talking out of his head? Have you thought about that, Reggie?”
“Yes. Many times.”
“What if all this is a big joke?”
“We can’t take that chance, Mark.”
He rubbed his eyes and slid his chair back. He began walking around the small room, suddenly very nervous. “So we just pack up and leave our lives behind, right? That’s easy for you to say, Reggie. You’re not the one who’ll have the nightmares. You’ll go on like nothing ever happened. You and Clint. Momma Love. Nice little law office. Lots of clients. But not us. We’ll live in fear for the rest of our lives.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But you don’t know, Reggie. It’s easy to sit here and say everything’ll be fine. Your neck’s not on the line.”
“You have no choice, Mark.”
“Yes I do. I could lie.”
It was just a motion for a continuance, normally a rather boring and routine legal skirmish, but nothing was boring when Barry the Blade Muldanno was the defendant and Willis Upchurch was the mouthpiece. Throw in the enormous ego of the Reverend Roy Foltrigg and the press manipulation skills of Wally Boxx, and this innocuous little hearing for a continuance took on the air of an execution. The courtroom of the Honorable James Lamond was crowded with the curious, the press, and a small army of jealous lawyers who had more important things to do but just happened to be in the neighborhood. They milled about and spoke in grave tones while keeping anxious eyes on the media. Cameras and reporters attract lawyers like blood attracts sharks.
Beyond the railing that separated the players from the spectators, Foltrigg stood in the center of a tight circle of his assistants and whispered, frowning as if they were planning an invasion. He was decked out in his Sunday best — dark three-piece suit, white shirt, red-and-blue silk tie, hair perfect, shoes shined to a glow. He faced the audience, but of course was much too preoccupied to notice anyone. Across the way, Muldanno sat with his back to the gaggle of onlookers and pretended to ignore everyone. He was dressed in black. The ponytail was perfect and arched down to the bottom of his collar. Willis Upchurch sat on the edge of the defense table, also facing the press while engaging himself in a highly animated conversation with a paralegal. If it was humanly possible, Upchurch loved the attention more than Foltrigg.
Muldanno did not yet know of the arrest of Jack Nance eight hours earlier in Memphis. He did not know Cal Sisson had spilled his guts. He had not heard from either Bono or Pirini, and he had sent Gronke back to Memphis that morning in complete ignorance of the night’s events.
Foltrigg, on the other hand, was feeling quite smug. Based on the taped conversation gathered from the salt shaker, he would obtain on Monday indictments against Muldanno and Gronke for obstruction of justice. Convictions would be easy. He had them in the bag. He had Muldanno facing five years.
But Roy didn’t have the body. And trying Barry the Blade on obstruction charges would not generate anywhere near the publicity of a nasty murder trial complete with color glossies of the decomposed corpse and pathologists’ reports about bullet entries and trajectories and exits. Such a trial would last for weeks, and Roy would shine on the evening news every night. He could just see it.
He’d sent Fink back to Memphis early that morning with the grand jury subpoenas for the kid and his lawyer. That should liven things up a bit. He should have the kid talking by Monday afternoon, and maybe, with just a little luck, he’d have the remains of Boyette by Monday night. This thought had kept him at the office until three in the morning. He strutted to the clerk’s desk for nothing in particular, then strutted back, glaring at Muldanno, who ignored him.
The courtroom deputy stopped in front of the bench and yelled instructions for all to sit. Court was now in session, the Honorable James Lamond presiding. Lamond appeared from a side door, and was escorted to the bench by an assistant carrying a stack of heavy files. In his early fifties, Lamond was a baby among federal judges. One of countless Reagan appointees, he was typical — all business, no smiles, cut the crap, and let’s get on with it. He had been the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Louisiana immediately prior to Roy Foltrigg, and he hated his successor as much as anyone. Six months after taking the job, Foltrigg had embarked upon a speaking tour of the district in which he presented charts and graphs to Rotarians and Civitans and declared with statistical evidence that his office was now much more efficient than it had been in prior years. Indictments were up. Dope dealers were behind bars. Public officials were running scared. Crime was in trouble, and the public’s interest was now being fiercely protected because he, Roy Foltrigg, was now the chief federal prosecutor in the district.
It was a stupid thing to do because it insulted Lamond and angered the other judges. They had little use for the reverend.
Lamond gazed at the crowded courtroom. Everyone was seated. “My goodness,” he started. “I’m delighted at the interest shown here today, but honestly, it’s just a hearing on a simple motion.” He glared at Foltrigg, who sat in the middle of six assistants. Upchurch had a local lawyer on each side, and two paralegals sitting behind him.
“The court is ready to proceed upon the motion of the defendant, Barry Muldanno, for a continuance. The court notes that this matter is set for trial three weeks from next Monday. Mr. Upchurch, you filed the motion, so you may proceed. Please be brief.”